Unexplored seconds and you write my dating profile because you observe better than other people, including girls whose bedrooms I sat in weekday nights, high school years. Difference now is, I don’t share easily, reveal crushes, potentials, because others claim first, and I’m not an Olympic speed, a rower, or an aging-slowly star with material and poisons capable of slowing time until it’s claspable and I lose you and we lose and we’re a well-worn dance we’ve watched on TV since 1982, more rehearsed than Communion we only ever got head pats, or blessed for, when all we want is bread.
I figure when people have secrets, but I can’t figure the secrets out, what they are, which I guess is why I haven’t been recruited by a specialist government agency, why I never know a disaster’s going down when it is. I assess after, am an aftermath-wallower, understand the intracacies of disengaged looks, feel tension like frission between people’s lips. My job title could be ‘Eye-Fucking Expert’ but instead I settle for the minimum-wage sorts of fall-into jobs we own since the Millennium turned, which was a bad New Year for me, if the eve’s an indication of the coming year, of every coming there will be. And god knows, we’ve all predicted wrong.